


Welcome Home

by theskywasblue



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z Brite
Genre: Homecoming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long road trip, it's good to be home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr_zook](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dr_zook).



_“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”_

Charles Dickens

The sky is the mottled colour of bruise, deep purple streaked with yellow and the faintest trace of red that grows as the moon rises. Ghost sinks into the dry grass, closes his eyes and lets the night smells wash over him - baked earth, sweetly withering roses, the sharp tang of a campfire somewhere unseen - these are all the gentle smells of an August night in Missing Mile, and Ghost is glad to be home with them.

Inside the house, Steve is sleeping off the effects of whiskey and a long drive, and everything they took with them to Chicago is piled high and precarious next to the front door, guitar strings still warm from Steve's fingertips. Soon Ghost will go inside and put it all away. There's already a pot of green chilli on the stove, and though Steve will balk a little at the absence of meat, he won't object to eating it.

Tomorrow Steve will go back to work and Ghost will go down to the Yew to do what his grandmother would have called "honest work" - cleaning floors and polishing glasses while Kinsey makes his Thai Gumbo and before the doors open for the night Ghost will sit in the middle of the dance floor, the point where the Yew is most saturated with all the desperate optimism of the hundreds of young and old souls that pass through the doors every night, and write a new song for their next performance. He's not sure what the song will be yet, but he can feel it deep in the pit of his stomach, like a rock inside a polishing drum.

All these things - August heat, green chilli, Kinsey's Thai Gumbo, even Ghost's songs - are mundane, achingly familiar; but at the same time they are all comforting enough that Ghost can no longer remember why it was he felt the urge to leave. Missing Mile is engraved in his soul and it always calls him back. There are dark things there certainly; hidden watching in the high grass or slipping through the shadows between the abandoned houses on Violin Road; but it is also a place of music and fireflies, the resting place of Civil War soldiers and tortured artists. It's a place of peace like nothing else that Ghost can find, even if the price for peace is sometimes blood and broken hearts.

The last of the sun slides behind the houses and trees, and the temperature starts to drop until goose bumps prickle back and forth along Ghost’s bare arms like marching ants. Low clouds of hungry mosquitoes swirl above his head, but they have no interest in the pale young man in grass. The fireflies, on the other hand draw nearer and nearer, casting secret traces of magic light on Ghost’s cheeks. They dart away suddenly at the sound of the screen door slamming, then Steve’s sleep-heavy footsteps are dragging through the grass. Without looking back, Ghost can see him – hair pillow-wild, sticking up in waves, cheeks dark with stubble, eyes heavy-lidded but starting to clear, in his favourite beer-stained T-shirt and worn jeans. His feet are bare and he grumbles about the way the dry grass pricks his feet, but he finds his way to Ghost’s side without Ghost having to say anything at all, and sits down.

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Nothing.” Ghost answers.

“You can’t do nothing inside?”

“I could,” Ghost shrugs, “But it’s not the same.”

Steve accepts that, even if Ghost knows he doesn’t understand it. Ghost has always known he is difficult to understand, but there is nothing he can do about it, unless he wants to stop being himself, which is about as realistic as sprouting wings and flying.

The thought of flying, or maybe the thought of being someone other than himself, runs a chill up Ghost’s spine, and he looks over at Steve, who is looking out at nothing even Ghost can see, just silent and staring. He looks lost, and Ghost touches his arm and he jumps.

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Steve’s head nods loosely. He’s really still more asleep than awake. “Thinking. There’s not much...but it’s good to be home, you know.”

-End-


End file.
